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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672596">Memoirs of a Rogue Undead - Book 1</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lironah/pseuds/Lironah'>Lironah</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Memoirs of a Rogue Undead [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>World of Warcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:48:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,733</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lironah/pseuds/Lironah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How did I defy Sylvanas and live to tell about it? Well, it's a long story.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Memoirs of a Rogue Undead [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Deathknell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I awoke from a sleep like death.</p><p>I mean, technically, I <em>was</em> dead. It didn't feel like being dead; I don't remember much more of that time than fleeting images, like dreams, mostly forgotten upon waking. I suppose in the coming days that could change, but I shouldn't get ahead of myself yet. There will be plenty enough of <em>that</em> in the months to come.</p><p>I rubbed the grave dirt out of my eyes. I can't remember what I was feeling, exactly. Hungover mostly. A bit bewildered by the winged shape flapping close above me. She wasn't flapping to stay aloft; she had little more substance than my uncle's radish stew. It was more of a memory flap, something she did because it felt like she needed to do it.</p><p>Kind of like breathing is for me, now.</p><p>Anyway, I struggled to shake off the hungover feeling as another figure, without wings, leaned over the edge of what I hadn't yet realized was my coffin. They asked my name, and I said "Lironah." I didn't give a last name. In fact, it would be great if could forget I'd ever had one. Some people claim they've forgotten what happened before, like I forgot what happened in between, though mostly I think they're ashamed. The Dark Lady knows we all have sins to atone for, from back then.</p><p>The figure, whose face I confess I can't remember, asked if I understood what had happened to me. I blinked a few times, then nodded. I remembered the sickness, and the way ... <em>that man</em> ... had looked at me when I fell ill. I thought I loved him, once, but some things you can't forgive. He didn't matter now, anyway.</p><p>What did matter was that he was gone. If he'd been anywhere near, then I wouldn't be waking. I'd have burned, like he burned my family. Our children. How I escaped that fate, I'll never know; perhaps someone stopped him. Perhaps he fell sick himself, and was too concerned with what he might become to bother about me anymore.</p><p>So yes, I understood. Those who fell to the Plague woke again as monsters, bolstering the Scourge which swept across the continent unchecked. As I looked at my hand, the flesh pale and withered and showing the shape of my bones underneath, there was no doubt I was a monster now.</p><p>And yet....</p><p>"Where am I?" I asked. Not the question I really needed the answer to, but the one I was willing to voice.</p><p>"This place is called Deathknell," I was told. It probably had a different name once, but if my greeter knew it, they didn't share. "In Tirisfal Glades."</p><p>Tirisfal was a name I knew. Far from the village where I must have died, though not so far that I'd never been there before. I didn't remember it feeling quite this gloomy, but that could simply be my own change in perspective.</p><p>"Good," the figure said, and helped me sit up. "Go ahead and make yourself useful, then."</p><p>It seemed that was all the pep talk I was going to get. The figure and their angelic shadow moved on to the next in a line of freshly-unearthed coffins. I could tell they <em>were</em> fresh because of the way the dirt still clung to them, untouched by weather. I could also tell that they hadn't been buried here.</p><p>"Wait," I called, unsteadily levering myself up on the edge of my pinewood box. It was new enough to give me splinters, but I could tell that I had been in the ground for some time. Something about that bothered me. "What am I supposed to do now?"</p><p>The figure turned. I expected them to say something dark and ominous, like "slay everything that breathes," or to report to some Scourge commander. Instead, they gave a tiny, indifferent shrug of their shoulders, and turned back to their work.</p><p>I stumbled out of my coffin. I don't know if anyone has ever explained how much work it is to suddenly not be dead anymore, but there hadn't been much left of me even before I died, and clearly there was less now. My muscles were more like bare sinews attached to bone.</p><p>"Not like that," said a slightly-less-skeletal figure, who leaned down to give me a hand. "You're Forsaken now. You don't move your body with your muscles. You do it with your will."</p><p>The figure, who would shortly introduce himself as Darnell, tapped his chest and put a finger to his temples. It seemed almost comical, with the way his detached jaw hung slack like a village idiot's.</p><p>"Thanks," I said, out of habit, though I was having a hard time internalizing the advice. I managed to get him to prop me up against a tree, and weakly waved him off.</p><p>He didn't go. He stayed close, crouched and ready to catch me. Or maybe that crouch was the straightest he could manage, with the bulk of the mismatched and rusted armor weighing down his bony shoulders.</p><p>It was strange how easily I became accustomed to his visage. I was dead ... undead? ... and so it made sense that those around me should be the same. It's somewhat less horrifying to stare a gruesome creature in the face when you know - or at least guess - that your own face must be the same.</p><p>Since it appeared that Darnell wasn't going to walk off until he was satisfied that I could will my emaciated form to move, I stalled by asking the question I'd been holding up until then.</p><p>"Why do I still feel like myself?" My own voice grated in my ears; I was suddenly afraid to see what I would find in the mirror. "I thought it would be different?"</p><p>Darnell peered at me in slack-jawed consternation. His words came out slurred, but understandable enough. "You're thinking of those mindless husks they call the Scourge. We're not Scourge. We're <em>Forsaken</em>."</p><p>The word hadn't meant anything to me the first time he said it, but this time I recognized it as a title. A badge of pride, in fact. "What does that mean?"</p><p>So he explained. About Sylvanas Windrunner casting off the bonds of the Lich King's will. How she gathered and united others who were also free. I'll admit that at the time I held a measure of awe for this Dark Lady, as she was reverently called. Darnell certainly felt it.</p><p>I still didn't understand what Sylvanas had done to <em>me</em>. That understanding would come much later.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Will</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sounds in Deathknell were oddly like the ones I'd heard in the days before I drew my last breath. Weeping. Soft groans of anguish. Shuffling, hesitant footsteps. And behind it all, an eerie, ominous silence.</p><p>I wasn't the only one being reborn that day. That winged creature was still making the rounds, and few of those awakened took it as well as I did. Some shambled around, witless and incoherent. One realized what he was and started shrieking - an unnatural sound that cut off only after he was shut back in his coffin. (And by after, I mean about half an hour.)</p><p>Some of them I remember specifically. Not their names, perhaps, but their faces. Their expressions when they either came to terms with being Forsaken ... or didn't. Lilian was there, of course, though sometimes I'm not sure knows it was me who held up that mirror and let her see her new self for the first time. Maybe she doesn't want to remember the way she ran from me, screaming.</p><p>The first few days were rough. I hadn't yet figured out Darnell's trick, though he coached me on it constantly. I shambled and lurched about, still trying to use my wasted muscles to control the pitiful sack of bones I had become. Basic tasks, like eating, were a chore. Yes, eating; Darnell insisted that if I ate, I would flesh out again, and it did seem to help. I wouldn't say that I ever truly grow hungry anymore, and my sense of taste isn't what it once was, but I can eat, if I choose to. He also made me walk around, practice not breathing, and other odious tasks like carrying rocks and kindling.</p><p>I think it was about my fourth day of this that I finally broke through.</p><p>"Picture your arm as it once was," Darnell droned for what had to be the hundredth time. "With all the strength you used to have. Now, hit me."</p><p>I pictured. I swung the short, wooden practice sword he made me use. My strike barely ruffled his tabard.</p><p>"No, not like that." Darnell tugged at his hair in frustration, not noticing the strands which pulled free at the gesture. "You need to <em>feel</em> it. Try putting some emotion behind it."</p><p>It was hard to conjure emotion, back then. I was still numb from everything that had happened to me. But I dredged up some of my frustration, some of my despair. I ... pushed ... the emotions down my arm, into my fingers. They tingled.</p><p>"Now, again."</p><p>I struck, and heard a resounding crack of wood against armor. Surely my wasted muscles hadn't done that?</p><p>"Good! Now do it again."</p><p>Once I had the basics down, replicating the trick was simple. I pushed relief and satisfaction down my arms, into my legs. With it went that force, that thing called <em>will</em> which Darnell had spent so long trying to explain. I struck again, and again, making his battered chestplate ring like a bell.</p><p>"There you go!" He smiled, which for him involved a pursing of lips and a lift to his cheekbones. "Now I want you to hit me as hard as you can. Don't hold back."</p><p>I let out a breath - to this day, I still haven't kicked that habit - and shut my eyes. I pictured myself as I once was; alive and full of energy. I pushed that sensation of vigor down my arms, drew back, and let him have it. I heard him grunt from the impact.</p><p>I opened my eyes and looked at my mentor, awaiting the expected praise. Instead, his eyes were tinged with disappointment.</p><p>"That's not bad," he lied. "You'll be able to carry plenty of firewood now."</p><p>"What did I do wrong?" I pressed, unable to let it go. "I did everything you told me to!" Indeed, it was already easier to walk around, now that I began to rely less on what was left of my body and more on the strange magics which let me move at all. It was almost like being puppet and master at the same time.</p><p>"Nothing. I guess maybe I'm the exception, not the rule."</p><p>It must have been clear from my expression that I didn't understand, because he took the wooden sword from me and gave it a causal smack against the nearest tree. The sword <em>shattered</em>.</p><p>I stood there dumbfounded as Darnell tossed the splinters into the kindling pile. My jaw might possibly have gone as slack as his.</p><p>Darnell shrugged. "They're making me a Deathguard. I leave tomorrow for my training. I ... guess you won't be going with me."</p><p>I felt a pang of loss that I knew Darnell felt as well. It wasn't the kind you living folk might have felt; that fire hasn't burned inside me since before my rebirth. My old life was a thing I would never have back, but I still hadn't put much thought into what I was going to do with this one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Crusade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When I woke the next time, it was to the sound of shouting.</p><p>Yes, I do sleep. Willing your dry bones to move around is as much work as doing it the old fashioned way. Maybe more.</p><p>These shouts weren't the kind I was used to, by which I mean, it didn't sound like Agatha had begun her work of waking the dead a little earlier than usual. These were more of a "help, someone is actively trying to kill me" sort of shout, which at that point I had no prior experience with but didn't really need any, you know?</p><p>So I go to the window of the tiny inn I'm staying in, and the village is full of people with torches and swords. I honestly expected to feel more in the way of panic, but maybe I was still too numb back then. Maybe it was because my heart didn't know how to beat that quickly - read: at all - anymore. Instead, my first thought was to ask myself where the nearest non-flammable weapons were.</p><p>The kitchen. There would be knives there, right? I crept downstairs, though it didn't seem they had tried to enter this building yet. The knives in the kitchen weren't large, and the best had already been taken, but they would suffice for arming myself with.</p><p>I ventured into the front, where most of the patrons were crowded. Most, like me, were freshly raised. Others, like the innkeeper in her spotless dress, had died here years ago.</p><p>I opened my mouth to ask what we should do. No sooner had I done so, however, than the front door burst open.</p><p>Those who came barging in were dressed in red. I knew them immediately - Scarlet Crusaders. Each believed that the undead needed to be purged from all of existence, and that he or she was the tool for that job.</p><p>I used to agree with them. Before I understood what the Forsaken were, I might have cheered their arrival. But I wasn't a shambling, mindless zombie, and neither were the poor souls who fell to their first onslaught.</p><p>The innkeeper made it only a few steps before a red-gloved hand caught her from behind by the throat. I stood there frozen, knife in hand, waiting for Red-Glove to crush the life out of her.</p><p>"Where is your Banshee Queen now?" the man taunted, seeming to take pleasure in the woman's struggles. Two more of them cornered me, the tips of their swords inches from my withered flesh and growing closer. Perhaps they thought I knew what to do with my tiny weapon.</p><p>"Let her go," I croaked helplessly. "Leave us alone!"</p><p>"Oh, look." Red-Glove tossed the innkeeper aside almost casually; she crashed into a table and lay there coughing. "This one thinks it can talk!"</p><p>The others laughed; some wickedly, some with nervousness. I couldn't see the way my eyes were beginning to glow, but I did smell a scent I would soon come to recognize as human fear.</p><p>Why didn't they strike? I suppose they might have been new to it. Or perhaps they understood how dangerous I <em>could</em> be, if only I knew how.</p><p>As for myself, the rage was growing every second. These self-righteous Crusaders had come to attack innocents. Monsters though we might look, our hearts were free. Couldn't they see that?</p><p>"Kill it already!" shouted Red-Glove.</p><p>One of those swords came down; I blocked with the knife by instinct, but there was too much force behind it. I felt steel cut into the flesh of my shoulder - though it hurt less than I expected.</p><p>In a flash of insight that was terrifyingly close to coming too late, the truth hit me. Darnell had taught me that I was only as strong as I believed myself to be. Up until that moment I had stayed true to the image I held of myself while I lived. But was that really all I was capable of becoming? A shadow of a careworn farmwife, whether in my prime or otherwise?</p><p>Why, after all, did I have to stop there?</p><p>In that moment of clarity, I drew up the memory of the strongest thing I had ever seen - a burly Orc in the slave pens of Hillsbrad. I pictured my arm, not pale and withered, but green and build of foot-thick solid muscle. I channeled my rage into that arm, and heard a snap as I drove a fist into the chest of the man who cut me.</p><p>The other stood stunned a moment too long. As soon as my knife hand was free from her companion's blade, I swung it toward her face with the same mental force as I had my fist. She cried out as the knife sliced through cheek and bone alike, and stumbled back with a shriek of pain.</p><p>Red-Glove, who by this point had turned his attention back to the innkeeper, whirled around. I knew I'd been lucky with the first pair, but the lines and scars on this Crusader's face spoke of experience, and he had at least twice the reach I did with the arrow-straight blade in his hand.</p><p>"You'll pay for that, Scourge filth!" he growled, advancing with an unimaginative charge which was nevertheless perfectly capable of killing me a second time.</p><p>Or it would have been, if Darnell's axe hadn't cleaved his arm from his shoulder from behind.</p><p>Red-Glove's blade clattered to the ground a moment before the man himself did. He was still alive, but his breathing was labored. Blood already covered the floor. He was dying, but the light of comprehension still shone in his eyes, and my fury was not yet sated.</p><p>I slammed my knife blade into the floorboards before his paling face, and stuck my own close, where he would have no choice but to smell my fetid, undead breath.</p><p>"I'm not Scourge," I said, with a brief glance up at Darnell. His eyes shone with approval. "I ... am Forsaken."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Forsaken</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The light faded from the red-gloved Crusader's eyes, and with it went my rage. Fortunately, Darnell had the situation well in hand. He chased the last of the Crusaders out - those who moved too swiftly for him to kill - and came back to look at my shoulder.</p><p>"Let me guess; I'm dying," I totally did not say. I didn't have enough experience to get witty about potentially crippling injuries at that point, so what I did say was, "Ow?"</p><p>Yes, with the question mark. as I mentioned before, it didn't hurt nearly as much as it should have, and I'd used my knife hand just fine. I wasn't even bleeding; the blood in my veins had long since congealed.</p><p>"It's not so bad," Darnell decided. "Here, we'll get you stitched up."</p><p>The innkeeper, who had clearly never been assaulted by real live zealots before, took some calming before she was able to bring down what Darnell called a "repair kit." I could barely understand her on a good day, but Darnell had much more practice interpreting the gurgles which often come from throats with some of their original anatomy missing.</p><p>(Fun fact: what people call Undercommon is really just Common, but with the more inconvenient consonants absent or replaced with tongue clicks. If you don't happen to have a tongue, it is perfectly acceptable to pop your jaw or your knuckles in and out of place instead.)</p><p>The repair kit turned out to be full of metal bits and heavy sinew. Darnell explained that the metal bits could be used to reattach bone, but felt that my little slice warranted only a quick stitch-up. I let him do the work, despite the fact that he nearly sewed my shirt into my shoulder twice. My hands were probably too shaky to have done it myself, though I was otherwise quite adept with a needle.</p><p>If you've never seen an undead before, you may not have realized that we don't heal the same way the living do. Scars and stitches never go away, and sometimes a limb gets so battered up that the only thing you can do is replace it.</p><p>Conversely, as long as we're still largely intact, we can keep on fighting with wounds which would incapacitate creatures that bleed. We do have our weaknesses, but you'll forgive me if I'm not inclined to share them here.</p><p>Once I was stitched up and the invaders soundly routed, we began the work of clearing out the bodies. It was a shock to discover that the man who cut me was dead, his sternum caved in from my blow. I had never killed anything larger than a goose before, and certainly not with my fists. I experienced a strange sort of dizziness as I came to terms with my new identity as a manslayer.</p><p>It was here, I believe, that the numbness began to fade. I retreated to my room and spent the rest of the night in shock, from which state I emerged only after the sun began creeping up toward the horizon. Darnell poked his head in briefly and found me weeping. I'm ashamed to say that I threw a boot at him rather than let him say a proper goodbye.</p><p>By the time I came to myself enough to realize what I had done, the wagon to Undercity was long since departed. I added that to the pile of things I spent the rest of the day mentally flagellating myself over.</p><p>I explain this so that you will understand that though we might seem cold as the grave, we Forsaken are capable of carrying with us a great load of emotional baggage. First there is the disgust with which our former selves and friends would now regard us. Second, for some, are the deeds we may have committed while under the influence of the Scourge, or in our lives before our undeath. Finally, and worst in many cases, are the crimes we commit in our struggle to exist within a world which would largely prefer to see us burn. So yes, sometimes we are understandably detached from other people's problems.</p><p>I came downstairs a few hours before suppertime, and found the general populace of the inn to have changed their attitudes toward me. There were nods of respect, claps on the back, and even a few curtsies. I was being congratulated for a deed I would rather not have committed, and if I could, I would have flushed with shame.</p><p>The kitchen knife still lay where I had placed it, stuck into the wood beside a now rug-covered bloodstain. I attempted to Orc-arm it out again, but my careless application of strength instead snapped the blade free of its hilt.</p><p>A round of raucous laughter filled the common room. I understood that their laughter was meant to be encouraging, but that didn't make me feel any less humiliated.</p><p>"It's all right," the innkeeper said, collecting the severed hilt from my hand. "We'll get you a better one."</p><p>I realized then that I had been elevated in their eyes to something, if not exactly legendary, then at least ... better than them. Some might have basked in it. For me ... well, it made me feel very, very alone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Rogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The innkeeper walked me down the short street and introduced me to a man named David Trias. She showed him the blade and explained my deeds from the previous night, then left me to squirm alone beneath his intense scrutiny.</p><p>"Narrow frame, quite short, and I like the way you stand there as if you're trying to become invisible. Yes, I think you'll do nicely." He tapped a finger to his bony chin. "Tell me, Lironah, have you ever picked someone's pocket before."</p><p>"No, sir," I said quite firmly.</p><p>To my chagrin, he replied, "Well never mind. We can teach you. Have you heard of the Deathstalkers?"</p><p>I once again expressed my ignorance.</p><p>"Humility. That's an excellent trait for a spy - just don't let anyone walk all over you who isn't a mark, and it should serve you well." He began rummaging through a chest full of sharp implements.</p><p>"Sir," I said, not at all certain I liked where the conversation was going, "what exactly is it that you expect from me?"</p><p>Trias continued searching and muttering for long enough that I at first thought he must not have heard the question. "You might not have noticed," he said at length, "but folks like you and me are the exception rather than the rule." He pulled out a long, twisted dagger, and bounced it in his hand. "Mindless zombies are the most common. Then there's the thinkers, who still have some sense of self, but never move beyond that."</p><p>He applied pressure to the blade, which bent like a reed between his fingers. He dropped it in disgust. "Tch. Pot metal."</p><p>"But you - you're made of stronger stuff. You've seen things. Suffered, and not broken. Most of the Forsaken who come to me discovered that core back when they were alive and made something of themselves with it, but no matter. It's been a long time since I've been able to start from scratch."</p><p>Trias finally found a blade that satisfied him. It was short and stubby and ugly-looking, but he beat it against the side of the chest twice without it snapping or bending, then gave it to me.</p><p>"Go try yourself on something we can turn into a sheath for that, will you? Maybe one of those giant bats that keep trying to fly off with my lunch."</p><p>He shooed me outside without letting me gather enough of my thoughts to object that he hadn't yet answered my question, and shut the door.</p><p>I won't bore you with the details of my hunt. In the darkening twilight, it was easy enough to tempt one of the beasts down within reach, and easier still to dispatch it. I must confess that as a farmer who often lost livestock to the wild things that roamed the countryside, I felt little compunction in killing it, or the two others which attempted to avenge their companion. In the end I returned to Trias' shack with enough bat leather to make a sheath <em>and</em> a pair of trousers.</p><p>I wasn't actually consulted on the trousers, to tell the truth. Whenever I objected to wearing them, Trias would go on and on about the dangers of skirts and robes and long cloaks until I was ready to do just about anything to change the subject.</p><p>My apprenticeship was brief but grueling. He set me against bats, wolves, and spiders the size of horses. Each time I would come back with my sack full of grizzly trophies and various cuts and bruises across my arms and legs, he would greet me with the words, "Not dead yet? Good! I'll find you something tougher next time."</p><p>At the time this felt cruel to me, but he was preparing me to enter a cruel world. I would be grateful for his instruction in the days to come.</p><p>There are some who fault me for my "choice" to become a rogue, but the truth is, I wouldn't have prospered in any other profession. I lack the raw fortitude of a warrior, the expertise of an alchemist or sorcerer, and the wealth of patience, I must sadly admit, that I once had as a farmer. My undeath and subsequent education about the forces seeking my general and/or specific destruction stripped that luxury from me, perhaps forever. One day, if this seemingly endless war should prove otherwise, I hope to retire as Thrall did and work the land once again. Until then, I will continue as I have.</p><p>Is a rogue a criminal by nature? That depends on your perspective. I would argue that in times of war, a rogue is often the kindest of opponents to have. I am capable of infiltrating a stronghold to reach my objective and leaving again without a single drop of blood spilled. In truth I despise killing, and will go to sometimes inconvenient lengths to avoid a confrontation with the enemy. Those who consider me coward for this have never watched me creep, without hesitation, so deep behind enemy lines that a single misstep could mean my doom. If I were so inclined, I could slip away from the front lines and live a comfortable life of petty larceny, but such is not in my nature. Call me a monster if you must, but know that each time I accept a mission, it is with the knowledge that if I don't do it, someone worse might be sent in my place.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Tirisfal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My training, like most of my adventures, ended abruptly. One minute I was practicing how to crawl through bushes without making a sound, the next my teacher was standing there, burning an official-looking document delivered by a messenger I hadn't even seen.</p><p>"I've got a mission down in Gilneas," Trias said, and tossed me a few coins. "That should get you to Brill. Plenty of work for you there, I'll wager."</p><p>I disentangled myself from the bush. "But I don't know where--"</p><p>"North out of town, then east at the crossroads. Stay out of the pumpkin fields and you'll be fine."</p><p>I blinked, and he was gone. He must have been expecting a messenger, because as far as I can tell he didn't even stop at his shack to collect anything.</p><p>Once again I was on my own, but this time I understood. This was the way things were going to be for the rest of my ... undeath. There was no one I could rely on to watch out for me, but me.</p><p>You may think to pity me at this point, but to be honest, it didn't bother me as much as it could have. I was beginning to realize that the limitations and expectations of my old life no longer applied. With this new strength I had discovered, I was free to make of myself what I would. I set out along the road without a further thought for my former mentor.</p><p>While some would argue that I had left my humanity behind upon the moment of my death, I assure you I have not been divested from any of my former kindred's foibles. In fact, as I came to the pumpkin fields about which I had been warned, rather than avoid them as was prudent, a rebellious impulse sent me creeping through them instead.</p><p>The pumpkins were coming ripe at that time, and of a larger, brighter sort than I was accustomed to seeing. I had some vague notion that I would like to taste one if I could, and the more daring part of me wished to know what could be so dangerous about the fields that Trias had thought to warn me against them.</p><p>I soon discovered what I thought must be the cause. A pair of farmers - human, and quite alive - came down the rows with a narrow cart, onto which they were piling the best of their produce. I settled myself beneath the leaves of a particularly large plant and tried to decide whether I should give them a scare. What I didn't yet see were the Scarlet Crusaders coming up from the other direction.</p><p>"Ho, the farm!" cried a voice from behind me. "Seen any Scourge today?"</p><p>"No, sir," replied one of the farmers in a casual tone that made the question and answer feel routine, "but something's been at the pumpkins again, and it ain't the bats."</p><p>The other added, "If you catch one, bring it back here for us. We could use the fertilizer."</p><p>Laughter rose, and I began to feel that proceeding with my prank would be unwise. However, escaping the field at this point would be far more difficult than entering it had been.</p><p>Given the brevity of my stealth training, I determined that the safest course of action was to remain where I was until both groups had passed. No matter how much stronger I was now than in life, I did not have any confidence that I could defeat four foes at once, especially when half of those were better armed and armored than I.</p><p>The soldiers marched on, but before the farmers had progressed sufficiently along the row that I felt confident in escaping their notice, a small commotion drew their attention - and mine. A short way down the dirt road which bordered the farm, four Crusaders had cornered a figure who seemed vaguely familiar to me, though at that distance all I could make out were her tattered garments. Nor could I make out the words she shouted, but by the roughness of her voice I guessed that she, like me, had recently returned from the dead.</p><p>This suspicion was confirmed as the soldiers, with their captive bound and subdued, passed where the farmers had gathered at the fence to watch. By this time I was well on my way toward the forest's edge, but could not help overhearing their incredulity that the Scarlet Crusaders had taken the woman prisoner.</p><p>This, I knew to be an impossibility. Either the woman was not undead, as I and the farmers believed she was, or one of the Crusaders had reason to believe that she was valuable enough to take alive. I hoped for the former, but to my chagrin the road bent near enough across my path through the forest that I soon encountered the soldiers a second time.</p><p>Their prisoner was indeed one of my new kinswomen. I also recognized what I had not before - what I thought at first was a pale gray dress with red trim was in fact a decayed version of the Crusaders' own uniform.</p><p>Many possibilities ran through my mind at that moment, most of them unpleasant. A sensible person might have gone on to Brill to warn them of the event and its portents. But as a Kelfin friend of mine is continually inclined to point out, I have always been possessed of more bravery than sense.</p><p>I determined to follow the soldiers to their destination.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Lilian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I feel the need to clarify the statement I made earlier regarding my dislike for killing things. Like the Tauren, I believe that all life is sacred, but accept that there are honorable reasons to kill. Defense of one's own, within reason. Hunting, for sustenance and survival, or to preserve the balance of nature.</p><p>Beyond these, I believe that death and war are justified when they serve that unfortunately nebulous thing we call the Greater Good. Defending the defenseless. Maintaining the rights of all creatures - yes, even murlocs - to exist and do as they see fit. Above all else, protecting this world from those who would see it subjugated, polluted, or destroyed.</p><p>I confess that I have crossed this self-imposed line too many times in my bloodied history. I have killed in the name of people who did not deserve my allegiance; this I admit, and bear the shame of it openly. Condemn me if you wish, but understand that a soldier cannot always choose her battles, just as a leader cannot always choose who follows them.</p><p>Regardless of any of this, I was not yet accustomed to dealing out death when I followed the Scarlet Crusaders to their lair. At this point, I was armed with nothing but a rusty dagger and a vague idea that Something Must Be Done.</p><p>I will let you in on a little-known secret. While experienced rogues can become invisible through sheer force of will, those who are just starting out have to rely upon more mundane tactics. Camouflage, disguises, distractions - whatever gets the job done. I hadn't learned any of this from my mentor, but fortunately for me the palisade I followed them to was little more than an overgrown ruin. There was more than enough cover for me to approach the small tower in the center unseen.</p><p>Getting inside that tower proved more of a challenge. I watched the place for over an hour, looking for weaknesses in their watch routine, but in the end I would have given up if not for the conversation I overheard as I crouched beside the horselines.</p><p>"Did they kill it yet?"</p><p>"No. Commander thinks Lord Voss will want to know about this one first."</p><p>"Well I hope they're not keeping it in the barracks. Stinks bad enough in there as it is."</p><p>"Naw, they hauled the cage up to the roof."</p><p>I could see the top of the tower from my hiding place, if barely. More importantly, I could see the vines which crawled up the side of it. Perhaps they would provide an adequate handhold for climbing?</p><p>Night fell. I was confident that my quarry was alive, and would be for the time being, and haste seemed imprudent given how thoroughly outnumbered I was. For a moment, when fresh soldiers poured out of the tower, I was afraid I had given myself away, but it was merely the watch changing. I waited another hour to ensure that the incoming soldiers would have time to settle down for bed, then began my assault.</p><p>The vines which I spied in the daylight were easy enough to find in the dark, but ascending by them was not so easy as the stories make it seem. The woody bits at the base were firmly enough lodged, but the higher I climbed, the greener and narrower the branches grew. After a broken handhold nearly sent me plummeting toward the ground, I determined that it was time to change my tactic for approach.</p><p>Not far below me were windows. Not the glassed-in sort you find in rich farmers' houses, but slits designed for peppering an approaching foe with arrows. I was just thin enough to slip through one of these.</p><p>No surprises waited for me on the other side, which I considered a grave oversight in the Crusaders' approach to defense. Perhaps it had been too long since an enemy dared assault their stronghold. I made my way unchallenged from there up to the roof.</p><p>Here, I found the reason - perhaps - for the unguarded arrow slit. As I lifted the wooden hatch, a crimson-garbed figure turned sheepishly from her study of the figure in the cage.</p><p>"I was only--" It took but a glance for the guard to recognize that I did not belong. She drew in a breath to give warning.</p><p>My training, brief as it was, took over at once. My dagger flew from my hand to the soldier's throat, cutting off her attempted shout.</p><p>I found the reaction as shocking as my opponent must have. When had I become so ready to kill another thinking soul? But I had no time for recriminations. Ruined though her voice might be, the soldier still had breath enough to draw her sword.</p><p>In the moments that followed, I found that yes, I had quite enough motivation to keep on living. With one hand I grabbed the woman's tabard, bringing her too close to use the sword to any advantage, and retrieved my blade from her throat. A few vicious jabs later, she ceased to struggle.</p><p>Here was when I began to realize that somewhere inside me lurked the heart of a killer. Whether this was a change which came as a result of my undeath, or a thing which had always lain sleeping inside, I cannot tell. What I do know is that even then, in addition to my disgust at what I had done, I felt a certain satisfaction. Here was an enemy who did not hesitate, upon seeing my face, to attempt to kill me. But she had not - in this struggle of blades and blood, I had emerged the victor.</p><p>I would not have time to properly reflect on these matters until later, however. When I straightened from wiping my blade on her cloak, I found a pair of eyes watching me from inside the cage.</p><p>There was my quarry, in her torn, filthy uniform, face as pale with death as mine. Her eyes were alert, and filled with disgust and horror. I recognized her fully then, as a woman I had met in Deathknell.</p><p>Lilian Voss was not always the strong, confident assassin that most who knew her both before and after her undeath are accustomed to seeing. There was a time of transition, as there must be when one becomes without warning the thing they once hated most. It is possible that the Lillian Voss I beheld upon that tower top was more miserable than she has ever been, then or since. I have never had the opportunity nor inclination to ask her.</p><p>I froze, half expecting Lilian to sound the alarm which her observer had not. Instead, she asked in a small, terrified voice, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"</p><p>I moved toward the cage; she shied back, and I froze again. "I'm here to free you," I said, though I was not at all certain that I should. Why <em>was</em> she here? Was she trying to broker some deal with the Crusade in exchange for her own life?</p><p>She looked at me with an expression that was best described as a combination of horror and shock. Horror, for what I was, and shock that I was capable of harboring pity for anyone, let alone the creature she had become. "I don't need rescuing. Get away from me, Scourge filth!"</p><p>"I'm not Scourge, and neither are you. We're Forsaken, and I won't let them kill you." I reached for the lock, which I probably had little hope of opening at that point, but had determined to try.</p><p>"I'm not undead - not for long," she insisted. "My father will change me back!"</p><p>I stared at Lilian through the bars. If there was a way to regain our humanity ... but no. If such a method existed, surely it would have been used by now. "What if he can't?" I said.</p><p>She stared back, even more terrified of the thought than she was of me.</p><p>Heavy bootsteps interrupted our thoughts. Once again I expected Lilian to betray my presence, but some amount of empathy must have entered her heart, because she told me instead to hide.</p><p>There was little cover on the tower top, nor was there much in the way of a hiding place for the body of the soldier I had killed, but I made do with what I had. It was enough.</p><p>Up through the door came a burly man, with a letter in his gauntleted hand. Lilian's eyes seemed glued to it. She spoke the man's name, then demanded, "What did he say? Can he cure me?"</p><p>The man spat at her feet. "The High Priest has denounced you, Scourgeling. You are not his daughter, but an abomination - to be executed at once!"</p><p>Lilian's wail of despair could no doubt be heard by all in the keep, but it had no effect upon the messenger before her. I slid my blade silently from its bat-leather sheath, preparing to dispatch him.</p><p>I never got the chance. As soon as his hand touched the cage, Lilian sprang <em>through</em> the bars and ended his life, in a manner I have seldom witnessed since. He was dead before he hit the ground.</p><p>Lilian collapsed to the ground, weeping. I extended a hand to comfort her, but she shoved me roughly away.</p><p>"Leave me! I'm not like you. Just go!"</p><p>I could think of nothing further to say, and so I left.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Brill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I wound my way back to the road with some difficulty, hindered by the darkness and distracted by my lingering concern for Lilian. I no longer feared that she would fall prey to the Crusaders, but I did not envy her predicament. At least I knew where, supposedly, were others who would grant me succor. If Lilian chose to spurn all help from her fellow Forsaken, she could expect a very lonely life indeed.</p>
<p>As for myself, I had experienced enough of solitude for the time being. After a midnight sojourn at the home of a rich undead at the crossroads, I awoke early and made my way toward Brill.</p>
<p>The long walk gave me plenty of time to ponder my actions of the previous night. In my previous life, I had never once undertaken such a dangerous and foolhardy task. Perhaps it was for lack of sufficient motivation, but I feel some confidence in asserting that coming back from the dead has dulled the fear of death for me. Further, I was haunted by the murder - if it can be termed such - of the soldier who I surprised on the rooftop. I was never inclined to such tendencies, but now I had killed twice in self-defense, and been willing to plunge my blade into the bared back of a third.</p>
<p>What was I becoming? Had I been corrupted by my undeath? Or was the capacity for ruthlessness always buried beneath the expectations of my former upbringing? It is a question I have often wished I could ask of those who knew me before. If any still lived. If any of them could look without terror upon the visage I now presented.</p>
<p>I did not know then, and am to this day uncertain of the answers, but before I reached my destination, I determined that it did not matter. This is who I was, now. I could choose to accept it, or I could run back and impale myself upon some Crusader's blade. One of those choices seemed considerably more appealing than the other.</p>
<p>The will to live is a strange and powerful thing. We put rules upon ourselves, certain standards of behavior, but when one's life or loved ones are threatened, something irrational overtakes us. When rules and niceties fail us, how long can we cling to them before deciding that it is time to do to another that which they have attempted to do unto us?</p>
<p>But I digress.</p>
<p>Up until this point in my adventure, every place I had been felt ... ephemeral. Temporary. Permanent only in that they were surrounded by forces which meant to destroy that which I had become.</p>
<p>As I walked into Brill, however, I was presented with a very different atmosphere. There was a sort of casual bustle to it - with not a hint of the desperation I had found in Deathknell. There were wagons, pulled by undead oxen and horses. Men and women with the flesh falling off their faces chatted amiably in the street over a cart of (mostly) fresh fish. A skeletal cat stropped its exposed rib cage against their legs, perhaps hoping for a taste.</p>
<p>Despite the macabre effect of the scene, the village felt <em>alive</em> in a way that I would never have imagined such a place could. If you have ever experienced the sensation of "coming home" to a place you have never been before, that was how it felt.</p>
<p>A wave of emotion washed over me. I had lived on the outskirts of Pyrewood, which was of a similar size to Brill, and which I felt little attachment to at the time. I was always one to prefer the deep quiet of the woods to the bustle of village life, but now I found myself enveloped in a warm blanket of familiarity. The walls too, incomplete though they may have been, gave a sense of security that permeated the whole place.</p>
<p>Most striking, of course, was the way not one soul gave me a second glance. There was no question in anyone's mind - I <em>belonged</em> there.</p>
<p>Once I recovered from this initial impression of the place, I began to take in more details. The first thing that caught my eye were the banners. A deep purple rectangle, bearing a woman's face and three crossing arrows in white, hung at each watch post. I would come to recognize this banner as a sign of safe haven, at least for a time.</p>
<p>The second was the statue. It took me only moments to realize that the armored elven figure with her bow must be Sylvanas Windrunner, the Dark Lady who liberated the Forsaken from the Scourge. The statue was clearly designed to inspire awe, and it succeeded to some extent. It was also carved skillfully enough that I would later know the Banshee Queen instantly at my very first glimpse of her.</p>
<p>Many within the Horde criticize the Forsaken for their hero worship of Sylvanas. How could we give such honor to a person whose heart held only revenge? But regardless of what motivated the Banshee Queen to do so, it is a cold fact that most of us were saved from a fate worse than death by her actions. I will forgive my brothers and sisters for their zeal - yes, even those who still serve her - because if you have never known the depths of torment suffered by those who once served the Lich King, you cannot understand how profound their gratitude must have been when they were freed.</p>
<p>Even for myself, who remembered nothing of the time in between, the very existence of a place like Brill seemed a miracle. And that miracle told us, here is the woman who saved you. Be welcome, and serve.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Undercity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Secure as it seemed, I learned quickly that Brill was in desperate need of willing hands. I found work immediately, aiding a local apothecary who found it too tiresome to gather herbs and such himself, and was willing to part with silver in exchange for my aid. From there I was lent out to many others among the townsfolk, and became known for getting the job done in half the time and with fewer missing parts than anyone else.</p><p>My time there was enjoyable enough, and my adventures hardly worth speaking of, save that in skirmishing with the Crusaders to our north and west, I often heard rumors of a person who I assume must have been Lillian, leaving scarlet-garbed death in her wake. I later learned that she assassinated her own father during this period, in return for his ordering her death. I hoped that she had made some sort of peace with what she had become, and thought no more of her for a long time afterward.</p><p>In process of time, my reputation grew such that I could no longer find odd jobs around town. What work there was, the villagers considered beneath me. Finally it was suggested that I move on to Undercity, where I might find "tasks more suited to my skillset." With a letter of recommendation tucked into my satchel, I was bundled aboard a trained bat and sent away.</p><p>If you have never flown on the back of a giant bat, it is a singular experience. Where many beasts of the air fly with a smooth, gliding motion, a bat is much more of a flapper. I was certain that half my teeth would be knocked loose before I reached my destination.</p><p>Thankfully, the trip was short. I disembarked (making sure to count my teeth) and found myself in a quite unimaginable place.</p><p>Where Brill was a blend for me of familiar and strange, Undercity was wholly alien. Built entirely in the catacombs beneath the ruins of Lordaerdon, there was no sunlight to be seen. Lanterns burned both day and night, and it was easy enough to lose track of the hour or even the days of the week.</p><p>The people there certainly cared little for whether the sun had set. Though I arrived after nightfall, vendors hawked with as much exuberance as they might in the morning in another city, selling concoctions and talismans of varying efficacy. I made the mistake of meeting one's gaze, and was nearly unable to escape spending all my coin on a trinket that I neither needed nor wanted.</p><p>The sheer number of people there was overwhelming to me. The streets and bridges were filled with not just undead, but also Trolls, Orcs, Tauren, and other folk of whom I had heard tales of savagery and general maliciousness. I kept my head down, expecting one of these to take offense at a glance, though if I had bothered to truly look around me I would have realized that they mingled as politely with each other as any mixed community within the Alliance.</p><p>Between dodging vendors and avoiding these hulking strangers, I quickly found myself lost. No one seemed to know the person to whom I was supposed to deliver my letter. Finally it occurred to me to ask where the Deathguard trainees were housed, and within an hour I was reunited with an old friend.</p><p>Darnell - whose jaw was now properly attached - was overjoyed to see me. He made no mention of my lapse in manners when we had last parted, but ensured that my letter made it to the right person and then treated me to a night on the town.</p><p>The indulgences found in Undercity were quite different from those in the cities of the living. There you might visit a manicurist to trim your nails and soften the calluses on your palms. Here you would find instead the bone sculptors, who could turn your decaying digits into fancy claws, or decorate your exposed skeleton with jewels and gold inlay. Instead of buying a new hat, you might completely replace your jaw or leg bones with something more fashionable.</p><p>For me, the most immediate need was a visit to the embalmers. After some time below the ground and some time above it, my corpse was showing some inevitable wear. In addition, any who have faced the Scourge in combat will be familiar with the particular scents I was no doubt giving off. I will not attempt to convince you that the Forsaken do not exude any sort of unpleasant aroma. However, ours is more likely to be the stink of embalming fluids than that of decayed flesh.</p><p>The embalming process took longer than I expected, and I admit that I fell asleep more then once in my formaldehyde bath. The second phase was less enjoyable, and involved washing the coagulated blood from my veins. This was then replaced with a proprietary mix of embalming fluids which left a horrible taste in the back of my mouth but which I must admit was much more effective than any such treatment I have received since. Embalmers from Undercity usually include a thorough de-maggoting (free of charge), so I really can't recommend them strongly enough.</p><p>After my blood replacement (and a quick nap), our next stop was at the hairdressers. Living folk with really dry hair may have a small inkling of what we Forsaken have to go through to make ours presentable. No doubt Sylvanas must oil hers daily to give it that freshly-dead sheen.</p><p>In life I always kept my hair long, and never thought twice about doing so. Now it was starting to come out in patches. My hairdresser's solution was to shorten it considerably and attach the severed locks directly to my skull. She made sure to do the same with what I had left, for which I was grateful enough that I let her tint the ends a subtle shade of pink without complaining.</p><p>Darnell gave me a final piece of advice, passed on from his own instructors, which I have clung tightly to ever since. During our visit he noticed how I shrank away from those things which I found intimidating or unfamiliar. This, he said, was exactly what I must not do. When faced with that which frightens me, I must instead straighten my back and look it in the eye.</p><p>I cannot count how many times this advice has saved me, both in confrontation and conversation. In many instances, the pretense of composure is as effective as the real thing. Further, I would go so far as to say that were it not for this lesson, I would never have risen to the status I now hold.</p><p>I practiced this new stance as we went to find me some better knives. It was difficult, and the first time I met the gaze of a Tauren, who was large enough to have snapped me in two with little effort, I nearly chickened out again. With Darnell whispering encouragement in my ear I persisted, and was rewarded with a smile and a polite nod from the stranger.</p><p>"They're just people," Darnell reminded me. "And better ones than those we left behind. The Horde accepted us when our own kind would not."</p><p>I nodded slowly, the knot of fear inside me taking its time to dissipate. Darnell had a point - the strangers here did not seem tense or afraid, as had the few humans I encountered since my undeath. Some looked pale from holding their breaths, but only a scant handful displayed wariness of any kind. I saw one Troll arguing with an undead man who seemed to be selling pet cockroaches, but there was no antagonism in the exchange. Merely two rational creatures haggling over a price.</p><p>My shoulders relaxed, though I still felt a ripple of fear each time one of the towering fellows passed close by. A lifetime of prejudice would take me time to overcome.</p><p>In the meanwhile, I had an interview to prepare for. There wasn't much coin left in my pouch after replacing my weapons, and so the clothing I was in would have to do. Darnell assured me that I would be fine, and as I reached the recruiter's alcove, I decided he was right. None of the applicants waiting in line were dressed any better, and a handful still wore the clothing they must have been buried in.</p><p>Though I would have preferred Darnell remain with me, the night was waning and he had training to attend to. He left me standing alone in the queue.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Sylvanas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The recruiter was, of course, an Orc. When I realized it was my turn, I steeled myself - he really wasn't that much taller than me, just very, very wide in the shoulders - and managed to pronounce my name without a stutter.</p><p>The Orc fished through a pile of papers until he found the one Darnell had delivered to his office last night. His eyebrows rose as he read the missive, and he studied me closely for a moment before he spoke.</p><p>"Silverpine," he declared. "Grand Executor Mortuus has been looking for someone with your particular skillset."</p><p>He clapped me on the shoulder, as he had done to some of those in line before me, but I was prepared. I gathered my will and focused it into the thought, <em>solid as an Orc</em>. My knees remained unbuckled.</p><p>The recruiter grunted, and a certain spark lit in his eyes. "Yes. I think you'll do nicely."</p><p>He passed me off to a clerk, who supplied me with another letter and showed me how to find the wagon to Silverpine Forest. I left a note for Darnell and made my way outside.</p><p>I hadn't gotten a proper look at the city on my ride in, being more concerned with staying on my bat at the time. The ruins above ground had a haunting sort of beauty, with ivy and skeletal trees grown up to cover their scars. I found I liked them more than I did the underground portion with its garish colors and thick crowds, and would have explored them more thoroughly had I not been pressed for time. Perhaps this was for the best, as some of what haunted Lordaeron even then was less than friendly toward its current occupants.</p><p>The wagon ride was uneventful, and shortened by the presence of others to converse with along the way. All were Forsaken, and most were veterans of one conflict or another with the Scourge. I myself had only met the Scourge in ones and twos, wandering lost from the main host, and drank in their stories like water. If they seemed surprised that a fresh recruit was riding along with them to what was supposedly an important battlefront, they did not show it. I myself had a sinking suspicion that I knew exactly why I was being sent there.</p><p>It would be some time before I confirmed my suspicions. Immediately upon our arrival at what seemed a hastily-build command post, we were told to smarten up and stand at attention until the "presentation" was over. The old-timers quickly taught me how to stand, and shortly thereafter <em>she</em> appeared.</p><p>My first glimpse of Sylvanas Windrunner took my breath away. Even had I not seen her effigy in Brill, I am convinced that I would have known her by the confidence with which she strode across the grounds, with a trio of Valkyr at her heels and a dozen Deathguards in ranks to either side. This was a woman who commanded <em>power</em>, and who had done so for long enough that she no longer thought about it.</p><p>Our late arrival meant that the only place left to array us without moving an entire platoon was in the very front rank, beside a square of ground laid with a double row of corpses. When the Val'kyr appeared, I assumed I knew what was about to happen. I was not entirely incorrect.</p><p>Sylvanas paced not far from where we stood. At length she spoke, quietly but audible to us from our position, to the Grand Executor. "Where is that ogre-headed buffoon?"</p><p>The words startled me, for I had not expected the Dark Lady to show so much temper in front of her troops. I held very still, for fear that if I moved, the casual ire which bent her lips into almost a sneer might instead be directed at myself.</p><p>The grand executor placated her with words I could not make out. Mere moments later, however, the subject of her impatience appeared through a portal in the air: the Horde's Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, complete with his own attendants.</p><p>This only served to deepen my anxiety. I had, quite unwittingly, been observer to a rift within the leadership of the Horde. I felt that such things were not for such lowly eyes as mine to behold, and if I had by that point learned to make myself invisible, I surely would have done so by reflex in that moment.</p><p>Sylvanas' expression became a neutral mask at Hellscream's approach. It was clear from the disgust on his own face that he would rather not have been there, but only a fool could miss the obvious power dynamic in play. They exchanged a few words, and then Sylvanas began her presentation.</p><p>"I have solved the plight of the Forsaken," she declared. "Our numbers decline with each battle we take part in, with no children to take our place. Until now." At a gesture, the Val'kyr did what they do best - raising the corpses at our feet as undead. I saw the bewilderment upon the faces of the newly risen, and knew that it mirrored my own. "<span class="text-say">With the aid of the Val'kyr, we are now able to take the corpses of the fallen and create new Forsaken."</span></p><p>
  <span class="text-say">Murmurs of disgust came from the ranks of the Orcish soldiers. I am afraid I missed most of the discussion which came next, though I remember that the Warchief's words were not complimentary. I was too overwhelmed by the realization of what had happened to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text-say">I had died, not from the Plague which birthed the Scourge, but from some more ordinary sickness - whatever <em>that man</em> believed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text-say">Sylvanas hadn't saved me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text-say">She had <em>cursed</em> me.</span>
</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Silverpine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Somehow, I managed to keep my composure as the Warchief left and the newly-birthed children of Sylvanas were ushered away. The Dark Lady herself retired to her command tent, and for a time we were forgotten in the general disorder that followed the command to break ranks and return to our posts.</p><p>I sat down hard on the ground. The oldsters laughed, thinking it was the Banshee Queen's mere presence which had overwhelmed me, but they took me aside to a tent where I could sit and collect my thoughts.</p><p>Suddenly, every inconsistency in my own story made sense. The undead around me rejoiced in their freedom, but what reason was there for me to do the same? I was brought back against my will, to a corrupted body which instilled horror upon the living. And for what purpose? To wage an endless war upon them, until only those like me remained?</p><p>I understood, on some level, that this was exactly what Silvanas wanted. She was <em>afraid</em> of what the living could do to her. It made sense, in a way, that she wanted everyone who had spurned her undead form to feel this anguish I was experiencing now. I could forgive her for that, I decided - but I would never agree with her.</p><p>I was trapped. I could not run back to the people I once called my own; they would never have me. The Forsaken had done what they could to make me feel welcome, and for that I was grateful, but to a man they seemed to worship Sylvanas. If I continued to walk this path of servitude, where might it lead me?</p><p>These were the thoughts I pondered as the Grand Executor put me to work. Once again I was paired with an apothecary, but after several days of gathering samples, she had a much more ambitious task for me.</p><p>"Requisition a bat from the handler and drop these vials onto the murlocs you'll find on the islands of Lake Lordamere," she said, "then report back to me with the results. Be sure not to get any of it on your bat," she added with a cackle, "or you'll have a long swim home."</p><p>When you're already dead, you learn to laugh at death. I have been told this is a good coping mechanism.</p><p>At any rate, I was not yet sufficiently confident in myself to disobey a direct order, and so I went. The bat I rode had a steadier flap than the last one, fortunately, perhaps because it was larger. I clung to the harness and timed my drops with each wingbeat, then turned back once I was done to see what my deeds had wrought.</p><p>The scene upon the murloc-infested island was one of utter devastation. Some were dead already by the time I circled around. Others writhed in agony, their shrieks reaching me even at the height I flew.</p><p>My insides twisted. Murlocs are a nuisance everywhere, but even they didn't deserve such a death. I flew back to the apothecary, shame in every bone, and told her I wouldn't do that again. She patted my cheek and called me a "quaint little dear," then sent me off to meet with one of the Deathstalkers, who had asked after me while I was gone.</p><p>Here my earlier suspicions were confirmed. Commander Belmont began by quizzing me on the area south of us, between here and my former residence at Pyrewood. My answers must have satisfied him, because my next assignment was to rendezvous with Admiral Hatchet on the coastline and return with a report on the status of her ships and crew.</p><p>I will admit that as I made my way southward toward the point marked on my map, it occurred to me that I might keep on going and not return. However, I had no wish to see my old farmhouse in ruins, as I knew it now must be. Worse was the prospect that I might find people I knew still living there, and I was not prepared for that confrontation.</p><p>The deeper I moved into what was at that point contested territory, the more I realized that this was not my home anymore. The trees and animals were as touched by death as I was, and roads which had once been safe were now patrolled by wild things instead of soldiers. I mentally cursed the men who had abandoned Silverpine to the Scourge, hiding behind Greymane's wall.</p><p>Except they weren't men anymore, according to the rumors. Word said that Gilneas was now the demesne of Worgen - some of whom served the Alliance, and some of whom did not. I tried to decide whether their fate was more wretched than mine, and could not.</p><p>At length, I reached the beachhead and spotted what remained of the fleet - two ships half-sunken and burning, and the shore crawling with Worgen.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Beachhead</h2></a>
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    <p>It took me some time to find the survivors of the two burning vessels, who had retreated to a semi-fortified position on a hill overlooking the beach. By then, most of them were drunk out of their gourds.</p><p>The admiral told me the short version of the story. Three Orc warships, full of soldiers and supplies, had been ambushed by a small band of Worgen immediately upon landing. The crew fully expected an execution as their reward for such an embarrassing loss - hence the drinking. (Though Admiral Hatchet and I were of the opinion that this had begun long before they made landfall.)</p><p>Here was the moment, I think, at which I embarked upon the path of the hero. Instead of taking the admiral's report and returning to Commander Belmont, I looked over the despairing crew and asked instead, "How can I help?"</p><p>Admiral Hatchet looked upon me as if I had taken leave of my senses. Perhaps I had. What could the addition of one green undead soldier do to turn this fiasco around?</p><p>The question got her to stop grieving and start thinking, however. Within minutes, she had rounded up the handful of Orcs who were not drunk and determined a plan of action.</p><p>"We need to get our supplies back. Armed with those, we might stand a chance of redemption."</p><p>Before I knew what was happening, I was placed in charge of the sober grunts - the naval term for them was "sea pups" - and sent to scout out the beachhead.</p><p>Here I began to regret my words. What did I know of command? Further, why should half a dozen hulking Orcs listen to the orders of someone who could barely look them in the eye?</p><p>But listen they did. They dubbed me "Captain" and hung on my every word. It would be some time before I understood why.</p><p>You see, leadership is one part having an idea, and nine parts having the courage to be responsible for it. With me in charge, the sea pups were confident that whatever happened would be Someone Else's Fault. Further, they were so glad to be doing something besides watching their commanders drink themselves stupid that I believe they would have followed a ferret in a fancy hat by that point.</p><p>Our plan went something like this: we would sneak up to the enemy camp, watch for an opening, and steal back what we could when we found one. The first hitch of course was, none of my small company were very good at stealth. So in revision, it was determined that I would do the sneaking, and once I found something worth stealing, I would lead the grunts one at a time to the place and back out with our prize.</p><p>We were lucky; not all of the Goblin ale which caused this tragedy had made it ashore with the crew. We liberated several crates of arms from beneath the watch of a drunken sentry, then recovered a leaky longboat and rowed north along the shore to the river outlet. My Orcs regained a measure of their confidence as soon as we cracked our first crate of weapons open, and were all ready to charge the Gilnean position by themselves when we discovered something unsettling.</p><p>Not far up the beach from where we had bivouacked, we found another pair of Orcish longboats, abandoned. My troop opined that they must be from the missing third ship, which it turned out had hit a reef and sunk some ways further north than the other two, and we moved inland in search of the crew.</p><p>We had barely taken ten steps into the surrounding woods when they were upon us - monstrous spiders as tall as a Tauren and twice as hairy. Two of my Orcs were dragged off, screaming, before I could call a retreat.</p><p>The sands did not stop them. Long before we reached the boats, they were on top of us - literally, in my case. I dodged the spider's fangs by desperate reflex, but was pinned by one leg and my dagger was too short to make an impression upon the beast's hairy hide. I heard someone crying for help, but couldn't spare an instant to even see who it was.</p><p>A deadly sort of stalemate ensued, the spider trying to pierce me with its poisoned fangs while I alternately dodged and beat at the leg crushing mine against the sand.</p><p>The sand....</p><p>I grabbed a handful of the stuff and flung it at the monster's eyes. I missed. A second handful came closer to the mark, and the great arachnid lessened its efforts to sting me and focused instead on regaining its vision. I grabbed for a third handful and instead found a piece of driftwood, which I Orc-armed out of the sand and smacked the spider right in its face.</p><p>My leg came free immediately. I rolled clear and came to my feet - just in time to get knocked off of them again. The spider flung me aside, deciding my companions might be juicier prey.</p><p>It shouldn't have made the mistake of ignoring me. As it bore down upon the beleaguered remains of my band, I came up from behind and gave it such a wallop with my length of driftwood that it collapsed to the sand and did not rise again.</p><p>The effect that my quick dispatching of the monstrous spider had upon my companions cannot be understated. Fear turned first to shock that such a small creature as I could overpower such a large one. Then shock cycled quickly through chagrin and on to bravado. With roars of defiance, they ceased scrambling about and turned on their pursuers.</p><p>When all is said and done, a spider the size of a horse is still a spider - that is, all leg and little body. My Orcs outweighed them by enough to make the difference, and in moments there were three dead spiders on the beach instead of one.</p><p>The next part you probably know already, as several (more or less accurate) versions of the tale are widespread among the Horde. After I selected what I guessed would be a more effective weapon from our cache, we infiltrated the spiders' den and freed most of the third ship's crew from the gorged and lethargic beasts. We did not save them all - in fact, barely more than half still lived by the time we arrived - nor did we find either of the pair we lost when we stumbled blindly into their nest. We were however bolstered (and now armed) enough that once the effect of the spiders' venom had worn off, we were able to retake the beachhead and recover what supplies had not been flung into the sea by the Gilneans.</p><p>I will take a moment to dispel a few more myths before I move on. First, the third ship's captain did <em>not</em> insist that we go back for the spiders' matriarch. Second, I did not stuff a stick of dynamite down a chicken's throat (or into any other orifice) and send it running toward one or any number of ettins. There was one ettin which roamed the vicinity of the beachhead, and which we lured into the spiders' nest with some minor loss of limb on our part. We do believe that the ettins and spiders dispatched each other, for we were not bothered by either again for the duration of that campaign.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Deserter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time we returned to Admiral Hatchet with our prize, the ale had run out and most of her troops were sober again. They stared at us with incredulity as we arrived in camp armed and laden with supplies. It was frankly no surprise that the admiral sent me back to Commander Belmont with a glowing letter of recommendation. Had I known that letter would bring me to the immediate attention of the Banshee Queen, however, I might have decided to misplace it along the way.</p><p>Belmont's eyebrows climbed higher and higher as he read the missive. Within minutes I was whisked off to Sylvanas' command tent, where the Banshee Queen's eyebrows rose much as my commander's had. It was all I could do not to squirm beneath her piercing gaze.</p><p>"I say this rarely, Lironah. but I am impressed. I believe talent like yours deserves more ... creativity ... in its applications."</p><p>I murmured something appropriately grateful, and was dismissed. The next morning I received the orders which would end my career in the New Undercity Brigade.</p><p>"An assignment from the Dark Lady herself," the messenger said, practically green with envy. "You should be honored."</p><p>I unfolded the missive, and my heart sank as I read. Then it sank lower.</p><p>"Human refugees, driven from their holdings in Hillsbrad, have fled to Fenris Isle in hopes of escaping defeat at our hands. A critical error on their part. You are to take Agatha with you to Fenris Isle and slaughter all humans. She will raise the fallen as Forsaken, bolstering our forces in the process. Do not fail me."</p><p>To this day I believe that Sylvanas was ignorant of how deeply these words would cut me. It was unlikely that she knew I had cousins in Hillsbrad, or even that I was one of those Agatha had recently raised. I believe she found it inconceivable as well that I could pity the living, or that I might not wish to see all of them slaughtered and raised as her underlings. As she would express to Lilian at some point in the future, we were arrows in her quiver, and any arrow which did not strike where she aimed it was clearly flawed to begin with.</p><p>Numb, I dallied for as long as I dared inside my tent. Agatha was waiting close by for my appearance, and regarded me with the same emotionless gaze she did any other when I emerged. (I do not know whether the Val'kyr feel emotion at all, though it is my opinion that they do not.)</p><p>I did not know what I should do next. I knew only that I could not obey Sylvanas' orders. I walked up to Agatha.</p><p>"Meet me on the island," I found myself telling her. "I do not feel like swimming today."</p><p>She gave a slow nod of her helmeted head, and flapped off toward Lake Lordamere.</p><p>I dithered a few minutes longer, acquiring what supplies I might expect to need on an extended solo mission, and made my way to the bat handler. He had been informed that I now reported directly to Sylvanas, and gave me no trouble.</p><p>I mounted my bat and held on tightly as I lifted off into the sky. I flew toward the lake, keeping low between the trees to avoid being seen from a distance.</p><p>When I reached the shore, I turned northward instead.</p><p>I was not one hundred percent certain when I changed course that I knew where I was going. I had some vague thoughts about returning to Brill, or disappearing among Tirisfal's shrouded hills. Nevertheless, by the time I reached the old zeppelin tower just north of Undercity, my mind was made up.</p><p>There were no zeppelins running from Tirisfal to Durotar by this era, but the location was still used for low-priority transport via portal. I paid the fee with my share of the spoils from our victory at the beachhead, and fled through the portal to Orgrimmar.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Lost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Where mere days earlier the thought of entering the very heart of Orc civilization would have filled me with terror, I had spent enough time in jovial company with them on the beachhead that I now entered the city with only mild trepidation. My principal fear was now what Sylvanas would do if she found me.</p><p>I reasoned to myself that I had sworn no oaths of loyalty to her or to Undercity. My only oath at that point was to the Horde - taken by requirement at my conscription - and surely I could find some way to fulfill it among the Orcs. Perhaps I was dishonest in doing so; history will no doubt judge me as it pleases for this infraction. Nevertheless I do not believe I could have acted otherwise and kept a clean conscience.</p><p>And so, swathed in a cloak in case Sylvanas should think to search for me here, I stepped through from the darkness of cursed forest into the bright sunlight of Durotar.</p><p>I found the comparative heat oppressive after the coolness of Tirisfal's misty air, but quickly grew accustomed. Longer in coming was my acquisition of the Orcish language, which is used as the common tongue among the Horde. Ironically, many of my fellow students were Orcs themselves, having grown up as slaves to the Alliance and never learned it properly. (If you meet a young Orc who cannot speak his native tongue with fluency, please do not assume he is ignorant. Thrall himself once struggled to integrate with his own kind.)</p><p>My first tasks, as an immigrant with no status (I disavowed assiduously all connection to the stories of my prowess in Silverpine or (strangely enough, as I thought then) other places) were to rebuild the many homesteads which had been damaged by the Cataclysm. Many were a complete loss, the land flooded and now full of predators from the overflown river, but Orcish farmers are a hardier sort than I had previously associated with. What they had built from scratch a mere five or ten years ago could be rebuilt. Loss of life was minimal here due to aid from Orgrimmar in the first days after the earth-splitting event, and so our greatest problem at that time was overcrowding in the few places which had been left untouched. Food might also have been a problem, but it happens that crocolisk meat is quite edible, if not as tasty as pork, and so two of our greatest problems ended up solving each other.</p><p>Despite my attempts to blend in, it was only a few months of this before I indulged in one too many crocolisk hunts and revealed myself as more than a mere grunt. I decided to move on before news of me reached Sylvanas.</p><p>Returning immediately to Orgrimmar, I thought to head to Northrend by zeppelin. The war was over, but the Warsong clan, it was said, still had a presence there. Surely I could hide among those rugged adventurers without fame finding me.</p><p>Boarding the zeppelin, I found myself a spot in the forward bow where I could observe as we sailed. However, it was a several-day journey, and well before we saw anything worth seeing, I fell quite soundly asleep.</p><p>(I have mentioned that undead are capable of sleeping. This is not, however, the same sort of sleep the living require. It is more of an energy conservation mode - like many Gnomish contraptions employ - and generally we are aware of what is happening around us. In times of great physical distress - or in this case great boredom - we can sometimes disconnect from our senses completely and fall into a stupor much deeper than slumber.)</p><p>For what happened next I have but little explanation. Those ignorant of maps have suggested that I tumbled from the zeppelin en route, or that the crew, thinking me merely a corpse, dumped me with the ballast. Regardless, when I woke next, it was neither aboard the zeppelin nor in the Borean Tundra, but in the Stonetalon mountains in central Kalimdor. This was nowhere near the flight path of my chosen vessel, though some days later I did discover a zeppelin tower which appeared to have been abandoned for some time. I can think only that some winged thing took exception to my presence and decided to make sport of me.</p><p>Had I a proper map of the area at the time, my visit might have been a less stressful experience. As it was, I managed to miss every Horde outpost and nearly run headlong into half the Alliance ones in that contested area. Finally (and after being chased for so long by an angry Tauren with a greathammer that I thought I might never be rid of her) I found my way back to the northern Barrens.</p><p>In my years since, I have traveled all over Azeroth and observed the damage done to world by the Cataclysm. Nothing of that has shocked me so deeply as did my first sight of the scar which now crosses the Barrens.</p><p>If you have never seen it yourself, I will try to describe it. The crack is jagged, ranging from a quarter mile deep to at least twice that, and the entire length of it is on fire. This is not the sort of fire that burns in the hearth, nor even the kind that ravages forests. Within this scar, it is the very rock which burns, and with the right wind the fumes from the smoke can make your eyes water from a hundred leagues away. A wooden bridge spanning this would burn to ash within the week. A stone one might stand, but crossing it would be a trial of endurance.</p><p>There was no bridge of any sort, alas, at this time. I headed south, skirting the Tauren settlements - I had no way to know that my pursuer in Stonetalon was of the Grimtotem clan, and thus an enemy to the Horde - and found myself in a wilderness so lush and lively that even the plants would creep about in search of prey. I thought I had escaped this after two miserable days of alternate hiding and running, but immediately upon stepping from cover at the edge of this forest I was set upon by a raptor at least twice my height.</p><p>How different, you may ask, was this encounter than that with the spider? And I would answer - it is a matter of solidness. The arachnid form is largely hollow, like a reed, whereas beasts have bones which are solid like tree branches. One is lighter and easier to snap than the other, though they may appear to be of the same thickness.</p><p>The raptor's quite solid bones were further covered in thick muscle, giving it both more stopping power and more sheer mass with which to pin me. My blows had but little effect on the creature, and after weeks of being alone I was also quite demoralized. When it knocked me to the ground, I felt that I would rather not be conscious for the savaging I knew must follow, and - having the choice by virtue of being undead - took leave of my senses before its teeth descended upon me.</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Tauren</h2></a>
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    <p>I am not sure how long it was before I awoke again. I had not expected to regain consciousness, and was in fact a little put out about it when I discovered what shape I was in. In retrospect I realized that my treatments in Undercity had saved me; even a creature which preferred carrion to fresh meat would be strongly dissuaded by the pickled nature of my flesh. This did not discourage the various classes of insect which had taken up residence inside my cold corpse, but I will spare you the details of those.</p><p>The beast had certainly done some damage. My torso was covered in puncture wounds, and it had savaged one leg into near-unrecognizability. Fortunately only my femur was broken, but the leg was not in a shape that could be walked on, even had I been in possession of materials to splint it with. Thus I was forced to choose between languishing interminably where I was, or crawling across the Barrens in search of help.</p><p>As those who have met me will perhaps guess, I chose to crawl.</p><p>The lush greenery of that strange wilderness broke quickly, becoming an arid plain upon which hoofprints remained long after the beast which made them had departed - especially the deep prints left by a caravan of Barrens kodos. Though I had no way to tell whether those tracks belonged to friend or foe, I was sufficiently exhausted that I would at that point have welcomed any attempts to put me out of my misery. Or so I told myself at the time.</p><p>I was fortunate. The first traveler to encounter me in that desolate country was a Tauren loyal to the Horde. He asked no questions of me, but lifted my broken body as easily as a strong man might lift a child, and carried me back to his camp.</p><p>My recovery took longer than I expected. Though physical shock is not a thing I experience as such, the encounter weakened the hold my spirit had over my body to some extent, and it was some time before I felt I had full control over it again. During that time, I got to know my rescuers as best I could. I learned of the Grimtotem and how to identify their banners. I also picked up a smattering of their language, though I do not consider myself at all proficient. This was not a problem, however, as Tauren children are taught the Orcish language alongside their own.</p><p>The Tauren who found me was Daher Brokenhoof, a survivor of a cowardly Alliance assault on Taurajo - an established hunting camp with no military presence. Having lost his wife and father in the attack, Daher would speak to no one but his sister Dima, and that infrequently. It was determined that he and I would complete our recovery in the safety of Mulgore, where further Alliance incursions could not reach us.</p><p>There was once an open path between Mulgore and the Barrens - now sealed off by a great wooden wall. We could not reach Mulgore by that path. Instead we took a narrow, winding trail up and over the mountains nearby, which was too steep for a pack kodo to traverse. It was almost too steep for us as well, but the Tauren did not become a bluff-dwelling people without learning to overcome such obstacles as cliffs and boulders, and in less time than I anticipated we were across.</p><p>Mulgore, if you have not seen it, is one of the greener parts of central Kalimdor. It is a land for grazing, with lakes and creeks and sparse woods rich with game. Its people are hardy, dwelling in tents and covered pavilions, though they are more than capable of building with wood when the need arises.</p><p>More importantly, they are a people who love the land. They are in tune with it, perhaps more so than anyone but the Kaldorei, and from this comes much of their strength.</p><p>Daher and I were sent to one of their spirit healers, who could do little for either of us. In Daher's case, the only prescription she could make was time. In my case, the hold my spirit has over my once-dead body is mostly a construct of shadow magic, and not in her purlieu. A Tauren with experience had pinned my bones back together with metal strips, and the state of my stitched-up flesh had little bearing upon my ability to walk, but my confidence had been shattered. Without that, I was but a hollow shell of the undead I had been before.</p><p>Time, it turned out, was the cure for what ailed me as well. Time to come to terms with my failure and humiliation. Time to rediscover who I was and what I wanted. And most of all, time to understand what had been done to me and how to take advantage of it.</p><p>The turning point for me was in watching the Tauren. Their magics were foreign to me, and often so subtle in their applications that most who observed would not understand them as such. I did not at first, until I observed a sport called kodo wrestling.</p><p>The kodo is the Tauren's preferred beast of burden, and it is very large and heavily built. Watching, I assumed that the larger Tauren would have the advantage, but this was not always the case. Certainly there were no undersized participants, but neither did any of them come close to the sheer mass of the beasts they were conquering.</p><p>After my second time watching one of these displays, I had the opportunity to converse with a master of the sport about this seeming conundrum. I had myself faced enemies which outmassed me to some degree, but now seemed incapable of replicating my earlier strength. What was it that I lacked?</p><p>Conviction, he told me, was the key. I could not match my earlier strength because I did not believe that I could. The sort of magic that monks and well-known rogues use cannot be granted by some mystical fount, but instead comes from a silent place inside oneself. Once that door is unlocked, many sorts of magics may be drawn through it and used at will, but if the door is shut, then naught but a trickle can pass between the gaps.</p><p>This answer, so obvious in hindsight, changed how I went about my recovery. It was <em>not</em> my body that needed retraining, but my spirit. If I believed myself weak, then I would remain so. If I understood my failure as a lack of skill, of practice, and of <em>will</em>, then I could someday overcome it.</p><p>I worked with this master many of my remaining days in Mulgore. He taught me so much that my first teacher had not had time to: the proper way to stand for best effect, how to redirect forces which you could not counter directly, and how to turn an enemy's strength back against them. Most importantly, he taught me how to find that inner peace which would let me lose with dignity and not be destroyed by my next defeat.</p><p>By the end of that time, I also understood another fundamental truth. While the Orcs may be the strength of the Horde, the Tauren have always been its heart.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. To Be Continued</h2></a>
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    <p>[Some pages of this volume are missing. Perhaps a Horde archivist can find the rest?]</p>
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